


Liberté Chérie

by maxcellwire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4343213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1940. France fears that this particular birthday may be one of his last. England is determined to make sure it is not so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liberté Chérie

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something nice for France's birthday, but apparently I'd had enough of domestic FrUk and decided I wanted to kill my soul with pain instead orz. I was watching the celebrations in Paris (the fireworks were amazing!) while writing this so it changed direction several different times, sorry...

“Is it to your liking?”

England had asked this as soon as they had arrived, France stumbling on his way to his position at the Cenotaph, with the other nations steadying him at the elbow. Everybody else had stayed in line, standing stock still in their neatly pressed suits as they cast their eyes down to the ground, and ignored his mistake. France pretends that they won’t all go back home to their wives and their afternoon tea and talk about him, about how France has become weak now, can’t even stand up properly now, how pathetic France is now, my dear.

The day is Sunday, the fourteenth of July, or so the calendar had said this morning, much to his displeasure. It is the fourteenth of July, and France is in London, with England, and it is grey and will probably soon be wet.

It is the Fourteenth of July, and yet it is not.

England had brought him croissants for breakfast, which France had picked at in an attempt to eat, before tossing out the rest for the birds. England’s usual morning newspaper lay still folded on the kitchen counter, front page faced down so that all France could see without moving it was the sports news, and he could hear humming from the bathroom as England shaved. When he emerged, England had thrust a suit at France and forced him into it, before dragging him into the centre of London for the ceremony.

And now he is here, and England wants to know, “Is it to your liking?”

France takes a look around.

The crowds that line Whitehall cheer when the parade arrives, flying Union flags and Tricolores and crying ‘Vive la France!’ to the passing soldiers. Children wave frantically as their parents hold them back from rushing out into the path of the parade, and the soldiers hold their heads high as they pass. The band follows them, blasting out La Marseillaise as though their life depends on it, and the streets of London resound with France’s traditional songs. Not forty years before this would have been impossible, ridiculed by one and all, yet it seems as though the whole of London has come outside today to celebrate.

England occasionally breaks his stance to point at things from time to time, drawing France’s eye to the flags that are draped along the road, the smiles on everybody’s faces as they sing his songs and the sheer number of soldiers marching past, all in France’s name.

“See that?” he says excitedly. “Look at all these people here who believe in you. How can they say that France has surrendered when everybody is here?”

France nods slowly, and feels the first traces of hope flickering in his chest.

The majority of people here have no idea who France is. Only those few in the know, standing around the Cenotaph in their respective positions, are aware of the significance of their Guest of Honour, and they approach him one by one, shaking his hand and wishing Monsieur Bonnefoy a very happy birthday. England stands at his side and whispers the name and title of each man into France’s ear, and France nods and thanks them for their kind wishes.

He doesn’t thank England. He doesn’t have to.

At some point, the Cenotaph delegation departs, following the soldiers down the road, with General de Gaulle himself at the head. France lets his feet fall in time with the beating of the drums, matching the steps of the thousands of French soldiers who march along with him. A tricolour flag bobs along in front of him.

The Free French, they call themselves.

France does not feel free. He feels as though Germany is watching his every move, and as soon as he is alone he will have his hand around France’s throat and press down, down, crushing his windpipe and laughing all the while. France can feel the tears of his people tracking down his own cheeks, feels their mourning settle heavily on his heart, and knows that today will be yet another day of suppression and anxiety for his innocent civilians. France has known freedom before, and this is not it.

And yet, there is something about these Free French that keeps him moving, keeping pace with England without wobbling or wearing out. The other nation keeps shooting him worried glances, but as long as France keeps matching his steps with the soldiers, _his_ soldiers, perhaps he will make it to the end of the road before he loses all remaining dignity.

Grosvenor Gardens are quite small for such a grand name, a tiny square of well-kept green in the middle of the towering buildings, and the soldiers halt outside the gates as they wait for the delegation to lead them in. The soldiers all but fill up the space as they assemble around the statue of Marshal Foch, looking down on them knowingly from atop his steed.

Once everybody is present, General de Gaulle is presented with a wreath almost as big as he is, with pure white flowers threaded among the leaves and ferns, bearing the badge of the Free French forces. He lays the wreath on the stone steps of the statue and salutes, and the park is silent. For a moment, France feels eerily as though he is present at his own funeral.

Somebody makes a speech which France tunes out, sick of English words and English accents and English judgements. If it wasn’t for the pain twisting his insides, and the dizzying numbness of every limb, it would be easy to forget exactly which country he currently belongs to.

The ceremony concludes with another rendition of La Marseillaise, and France closes his eyes as the distinctive opening trumpet rolls through the air, before it is replaced with voices. Everyone turns to the soldiers, who stand with their hands over their hearts, staring proudly ahead as they sing, words so precious to France, gradually growing louder and louder with each new addition.

Something stirs in his chest, and suddenly he finds his lips moving along with them, because as lost as he feels, he _loves_ these men. These men who have left their dear homes and families to protect him, have pledged their lives to serve him, even when everyone else had given up. When de Gaulle had called, they had come running; how could he not love them with all his heart?

France is breathless when the song ends, and cannot even concentrate as the soldiers are dismissed, because something has reawakened and is threatening to shatter the uncomfortable ice that had been encasing him. Once he and England are alone in the gardens, he sinks to his knees at the foot of the statue, the wreath beside him, and bows his head.

“Seems old Foch was right after all,” England remarks from somewhere behind him, kicking up dust from the ground, and France hums his agreement. “What was it he said? Something about a twenty year armistice.”

“I told you so at the time. You shouldn’t have listened to Amérique so much.”

“What was I supposed to do, ignore his opinion after all the help he gave us?”

France shakes his head but doesn’t respond, instead bending to kiss the stone, letting the new vitality thrum through his veins. Paris might be in mourning, but London…

Stretching out again, he takes a step back to stand beside England. They remain like that for several minutes, the summer breeze ruffling their hair and the ferns of the wreath. England doesn’t dare to ask the question that’s burning on the tip of his tongue, and he waits for France to speak.

“It was nothing like the spectacle Paris provides, but it was… quite nice, I suppose.”

England’s face lights up with a grin spreading across his face, eyes dancing, and France doesn’t even want to think about what that means for them. It’s bizarre enough that they are celebrating La Fête Nationale here in the land of his old enemy – in his heart, no less – and France doesn’t have the patience to decipher England’s stunted emotions at the moment. All he knows is that the other nation has been strangely attentive all day.

In fact, England has been very gentle with him for the past few weeks. It’s unnerving.

Perhaps he is feeling guilty.

France knows he isn’t free from blame either, and sometimes when he closes his eyes, he sees England’s face before him, remembers how he had clutched at France’s shoulders and begged him to give him another chance, the sting of rejection printed on his face. He can’t help but wonder whether England wept that night as he did.

Still, France and England have never been afraid of hurting each other before. France shouldn’t have wanted to comfort England when he told him about the armistice agreement, and England shouldn’t have been so patient when France kicked and screamed at him, called him names and spat threats as he wept for the men he’d lost at British command.

But they did, and now the world was off balance.

“Shall we go and get lunch, then?” England suggests cheerfully, noticing that France has disappeared into his thoughts again. There’s a slim envelope hidden in his jacket pocket waiting to be revealed, and this war is too miserable for him to keep pretending he doesn’t care. “There are a few nice French cafes in Kensington, I believe, if that’s what you fancy.”

“I should go to Paris,” France says with conviction, and England jerks his head back in shock.

“What?”

“I should be with my people. They need me.”

“Your people are here, France.”

“Non, Angleterre, my people are not here. They are across the Channel and they are not safe, and they need their nation to be there for them.”

England folded his arms across his chest defensively.

“So, what? You want to put yourself in danger too? How can you be useful when you’re at risk as well? You’re better off here, where you’re safe and you can think rationally. De Gaulle is setting up his government here, and I’ve word from Belgium and the Netherlands that they’ll be following suit. It makes sense to stay here.”

“But how much longer will it be safe here? Do you think I haven’t heard you discussing the possibility of a German invasion? That I didn’t see that you’d been fighting already? Here-“

He reaches out and grabs England’s arm, beginning to roll up his jacket sleeve. England screeches and yanks it back, but not before France catches a glimpse of the bandage wrapped around his forearm. For now it may only be one wound, but by next week it’ll have multiplied, if the rumours are anything to go by. He doesn’t want to see England weakened so, but he’s not blind enough to ignore the facts.

France lets his expression soften as he meets England’s eyes again.

“You’re not invincible, Angleterre. We’re all at risk, and while I appreciate your help, I’m no safer here in London than I would be in Paris.”

England sighs and looks away, and France knows that means he’s right, but England doesn’t want to admit it.

“Come, let’s get some lunch, and we can discuss it on the way there,” France says, even though he has no plans to make negotiations. He may no longer be a free nation, but that doesn’t mean he’ll allow England of all people to start telling him what to do.

They walk towards the Tube station in silence, England staying at France’s side to aid him should he need help, closely watching his every move. He is pensive, and when they emerge from the underground, he pauses before they enter the café, holding France in place with him.

“If you must go, at least wait until de Gaulle returns,” he asks of him, “and go with him. You’ll achieve more if you’re part of an organised campaign, rather than striking out on your own.”

“You tell me this as though I haven’t lived for over two thousand years.”

“Yes, were we not just celebrating that fact? I would rather this not be your last birthday, as a matter of fact.”

France purses his lips in thought.

“I wonder which I would be more likely to die of, being destroyed by Allemagne or becoming redundant wasting my days away in London.”

“My money’s on Pétain. I shudder to think what would happen should you fall into his hands.” England swallows nervously and looks away. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to convince you to stay?”

France smiles sadly, and wonders what kind of world he is living in, where England isn’t gloating about France’s loss but instead is caring for him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, chéri. My mind is set.”

“Stubborn as ever.”

“Perhaps so, but it is for the best, non? After all, a nation is nothing without their people.”

One day, France thinks, la Fête Nationale will return to the Champs-Elysées. One day he will celebrate as he should, with the full force of the French army behind him, fresh from winning their freedom back again, and they will march beneath the Arc de Triomphe and the entire world will marvel at their magnificence. France has survived defeat before, has nearly torn himself apart and still emerged triumphant, and so France shall survive again. And one day soon, France will celebrate without limits or fear, and the streets of Paris will come alive once more.

For now, London will do.

**Author's Note:**

> And one day I will learn how to write an accurate France...
> 
> France surrendered to Germany on the 22nd June 1940, and the region was divided into the Vichy government led by Pétain, where all celebrations of Bastille Day were forbidden, and the German-controlled north. I imagine that France would have had some confusion regarding which part of himself he is meant to represent, as it seems as though the Vichy government was the legal successor to the French Republic, yet I imagine he would have been more likely to support the Resistance. So in my headcanon he follows de Gaulle to London, but whenever he returns to continue fighting, he's at risk of being captured and forced to stay there, either by Germany himself or by Vichy.
> 
> Pretty much all of my research comes from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUzcUbHK0fY
> 
> Marshal Foch was an important French general in WW1, helping to achieve victories at the Marne and collaborating with the British at the Somme. He advocated a really strict punishment on Germany in the Treaty of Versailles, and was disappointed with the 'lenient' result, saying that it would only cause 'an armistice for twenty years', which is pretty close to the truth.
> 
> England may have been feeling guilty because of Mers-El-Kébir, where the British sank the French navy on the 3rd July because they feared it would fall into the hands of the Axis after the French surrender. 1297 people died as a result, which the French weren't happy about, surprisingly enough. I think there might be a fic about it somewhere, but I've forgotten...(found it! This is brilliant, go and read it now: http://archiveofourown.org/works/104071)
> 
> The Battle of Britain began on the 10th July, and although most of the major fighting didn't take place until after the vents of this fic, there had been a few incidents over the Channel where the Germans had been attacking British cargo ships. It would get only get much /much/ worse from there, and many French people believed that Britain would fall to the Germans as well, so HA HA to them.
> 
> On a happier note, it's good to see London has continued the Bastille Day tradition by chopping watermelons with guillotines....  
> If anybody's reading, I hope you enjoyed this wobbly, rushed mess of a oneshot :)


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